Receding Figures
by ArcticDragon119
Summary: In which Moriarty is not quite human. Sherlock is faced with an impossible choice - John's heart, or John's soul? A touch of Sherlock/John.


**Receding Figures**

_ O, Death_

_ O, Death_

_ Won't you spare me over 'til another year_

_ No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold_

_ Nothing satisfies me but your soul_

"Let me give you a little extra incentive." His voice grew lower, more ominous. "Your friends will die if you don't."

Staring Moriarty in the face - staring this monster in the face - as he said these words, Sherlock's minds was filled with thoughts and images and impressions of John. A dull panic was slowly twisting his stomach into knots. After all his thought, all his careful calculations and considerations of all the possible outcomes of this encounter, Sherlock was thrown off for the first time in his life.

It was those black, dead eyes.

It was what Moriarty had become. No, what Moriarty had always been. Something other than human. A monster. A... a demon. And now here they were, and Moriarty was proposing an impossible choice. John's life, or John's heart. Die or lose the only person Sherlock had ever truly cared about.

"Isn't one usually allowed ten years?" Sherlock asked, remembering a superstitious folk tale he had read as a child.

Moriarty shrugged, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, usually," he drawled, "but you're a bit of a special case." He leaned in, those horrible eyes looking up at Sherlock's tall form. "They've been wanting you down there. You're a bit of a prize."

Sherlock said nothing, his mind working furiously, searching for a solution. There had to be a solution. He just had to think. Find it.

Moriarty withdrew a bit and sauntered over to the edge of the hospital. Looking over, he said, "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop."

Sherlock didn't move. He had to find the solution.

Moriarty apparently was displeased with his hesitation. "Go on," he prodded.

Still searching, Sherlock stepped up on the ledge. He looked down and was hit by vertigo. It was a long way down. He needed time, time to think. " Would you give me ... one moment, please? One moment of privacy?" He glanced back at Moriarty. "Please?"

He looked a little disappointed, but he said, "Of course," and moved away.

Sherlock cleared his mind and thought. He had to find something... something that would fulfill the demon. Moriarty wanted a deal - he wanted a life - he wanted a prize. But he was not willing to give him what he wanted. If - what did Moriarty fear? What couldn't he stand? Nothing. There was nothing. But he liked to talk - he liked mind games. He could...

Sherlock straightened a little. He had his solution. A smile spread across his face, and he began to quietly laugh. He spun around and lightly stepped off the ledge as Moriarty glared at him.

"What?" he demanded. "What is it?"

Sherlock paced around Moriarty, leaning in to jeer, "I don't have to die. Not if I've got you."

"Oh!" Moriarty said, amused. "You think you can make me do something I don't want to do? I've done so many things, Sherlock." His voice was low now, dangerous. "I've done things you can't imagine, and I've dealt with things you can't imagine. Have you ever been to Hell? You're human, you're ordinary. The worst you can do - it's nothing."

Sherlock stopped in front of him. "But I'm not ordinary. I'm like you – prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to match what has happened to you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you."

But Moriarty was shaking his head slowly. "You talk big," he said, and he sounded disappointed again, bored. "Nah. You're ordinary. You're human - you're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock towered over him, his eyes cold as he regarded the demon before him. "I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for a second I am one of them."

They were both silent for a moment. The breeze picked up as they stared at each other, each trying to see into the other's mind.

Finally Moriarty broke the silence. "No. You're not." He let out a short, shrill laugh. "You're not ordinary. You're me!" He lifted his hand for a handshake. "Yes! Sherlock Holmes."

Slowly, Sherlock took his hand and shook it, once, twice. Moriarty watched his hand as he let go and lowered it again.

"As long as you've got me, you've got a way out. Is that right?" Moriarty smirked suddenly, and Sherlock's gut went cold. "Well! Good luck with that."

He broke away from Sherlock and staggered back a few steps. His mouth opened wide and he looked up, back arched painfully. A high noise, like a tea kettle, filled the air as a black, twisting rope exploded out of his mouth. The body shook as Sherlock stumbled back, getting out of the way. The black tornado reached up into the sky until the last of it whispered from Moriarty's mouth, and then it was gone. The body fell to the ground. Its eyes were open, and the faint shadow of a victorious smile played on the corners of its mouth. The demon was gone.

Sherlock spun away, staring at his outstretched hand in horror. The handshake. He had been outsmarted. The demon had won. John would die.

Unless...

He stepped back up to the lip of the roof again. Down below, he saw John step out of a taxi and look around. Sherlock pulled out his phone, called his number. He saw John answer, then heard his voice in his ear.

"Hello?"

Sherlock somehow kept his voice steady. "John."

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" He was trotting towards the hospital.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came. Now."

"No, I'm coming in."

His voice betrayed a frantic edge. "Just do as I ask. Please."

John turned around obediently and walked back across the road. "Sherlock? What's going on?"

"Look up. I'm on the rooftop."

John did so, and Sherlock heard his breath catch in his throat. "Oh, God -"

"I... I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"Do what? What's going on, Sherlock?"

"John, I - I'm sorry. This is an apology."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? I'm coming up." He took a step, moving back towards the building.

Sherlock heard a low growling behind him. What was it that old story had talked about?

Hellhounds.

"No!" Sherlock yelled. "Don't. Stay where you are."

John obeyed reluctantly, holding his hand up to reassure Sherlock he would stop. "All right."

Sherlock unconsciously mirrored John's action, reaching out towards him. He wasn't trying to hide the emotion from his voice anymore as he said, "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Look at me. Please. Will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call... it's my note. That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"

John sucked in a breath, shaking his head slowly as he suddenly understood what was going on. The force of the realization hit him hard; he forgot to hold the phone to his ear for a moment. Then he whipped it up back up again.

"Sherlock -"

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't." He was shaking his head again. Denial, Sherlock's mind informed him.

John. Sherlock gazed down at him for a moment, taking in as much of his face as he could. All this was for him. John couldn't die. Not John. He had to keep living. He was important. So important...

Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear, cutting off John's frantic pleas. He tossed it carelessly behind him, then held his arms out to his sides. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Then he launched himself forward, and for a second he was flying. Then: nothing.

Then: pain. Heat. Chilling screams. Were they his own? Someone else's? So much pain.

He couldn't see John anymore.

* * *

He spent what felt like years in Hell before the gates opened. And then, suddenly, he was free, floating back onto the face of the earth. He wasn't the only soul to escape - no, he was surrounded by so many others, human and demon alike. They all whipped out together and scattered among the gravestones. Every shade seemed to have a purpose, to have a goal in mind. They spread in all directions and flew into the sky.

Sherlock had a destination as well.

He rushed east, climbing higher as he passed endless forests and cities. When the ground turned to swelling, salty waves, he angled north, thinking of London, thinking of an apartment on Baker Street. With a rush, the ocean once again gave way to ground.

Sherlock slowed and floated lower, skimming over wheat fields and grazing sheep, street corners and honking cars.

He reached the city. He thought briefly again of the apartment, but he knew who he was looking for wouldn't be there. Some feeling inside of him pointed him towards a little patch of green in the sea of gray stone. And in the middle of the green, a little black dot with short, blonde hair.

John was standing in front of a grave. His own grave, Sherlock knew. John didn't seem to notice him as he reached the ground and walked in front of him. It was just as well.

Once again, Sherlock could take in John's face: all the contours, all the bones, all the chubby flesh; all the stubble; all the wrinkles on his forehead and the tearstains on his cheeks. Something began to ache inside Sherlock, and he moved away to stand under a tree, close enough to hear but not close enough to see, to feel.

John began to speak.

"You... you told me once that you were a hero. Um..." he faltered a little, then carried on. "There were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this. You were the best man, and the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So... there."

He took a shuddering breath, then reached out to touch the gravestone, much like he had reached for Sherlock that day. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

"John," Sherlock breathed, but of course his words went unheard.

John took another breath, blinking back tears. "Okay," he said mechanically, and turned on his heel to walk away, but he stopped and looked back.

"No. Please, there's just one more thing, mate. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be..." Another breath, then, "dead. Would you do - just for me. Just stop it. Stop this." He gestured wildly at the grave.

All his strength abandoned him at once. His head bent down, and he stooped over, looking old, broken. He started to cry, then, and Sherlock wanted to badly to step forward, to touch him on the shoulder, to stop the tears, but he didn't move. It was no use, he knew. So he kept his distance, watching John break, hating every second of his own powerlessness.

John raised his head, sniffing. He nodded at the grave, then turned away once more, making his way back through the headstones back to the apartment.

Sherlock watched him go, watched part of him tear away and follow the receding figure.

"John," he murmured, "John. There's no such thing as miracles."

He stayed there for a long time, watching John walk away.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please review - each and every review gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling!

I own none of these characters, of course. (Are these disclaimers really necessary?)

Thanks to Arian DeVere on LiveJournal for her amazing Reichenbach Fall transcript! It made it possible for me to use as many exact lines from the show as I could.


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